


The Backwater Gospel

by CacoPhoniA



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blasphemy, Dark Stuff, M/M, go watch the video omg, sorry this is weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-27 02:11:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1711196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CacoPhoniA/pseuds/CacoPhoniA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You too will join the parade of unbelievers, and the most angelic of all shall lead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Backwater Gospel

**Author's Note:**

> This is based off the short film called The Backwater Gospel. I really suggest you go watch it, oh my god. 
> 
> Also, sorry for the weirdness.

Of the many times the Undertaker had wheeled himself into town, the creak-rattle of his chain sounding out through the dull silence of the dusty town, the same boy had been with him, seated on the back of the bike, blue eyes a-glow, dirty nails clutching the faded suit of the bringer of death.

 

The Undertaker's eyes were like quicksilver when the spectacles perched upon his nose reflected in the burning (cold, cold) sunlight that was a constant here, so you were never sure if he was looking at anything, anyone, or nothing at all. You never got too close of a look, because Dirk would always clap a hand over your eyes, dragging you into the building constructed of rotted wood that you called your home. 

"Don't ever look directly at him, Dave," he'd whisper when you were smaller, stronger hands pressing you to his side. His eyes were frantic when he looked out through the shutters, staring at the boy and the suited man, sitting on the mound in front of the gallows. They were still as the grave, staring straight ahead until the choked-off screams of death ricocheted through the town, and then they went off in the direction of the screams, to fetch the body, you always presumed.

His amber eyes were wide and darting at the two, and he never told you which was worse to look at.

 

-

 

 

The very last time you saw the boy was during a scorching Sunday in July, after church, and you were shuffling behind the crowd of coughing, dirty scragglers that were the townspeople. Dirk had gone on ahead, not bothering to talk to the rather mean-spirited and squat preacher that often looked at you and your brother with a scrutiny you didn't quite know how to decipher.

 

You'd always hated church anyways, that stuffy, musty-smelling building filled to the brim with pious and pathetic people, hands clasped in front of them and hanging on to every word that the reverend spat out. Hoarse "amen"s and "hallelujah"s would sound out stupidly at certain points in the sermon, always after something having to do with the death of certain characters in his precious Bible that never left the podium.

You were never as into it as the rest of the townspeople, and Dirk felt similar to your thoughts on the church, but you both went anyway.

 

Dirk always said it was so it wouldn't raise suspicion.

"What are they suspicious of?" you'd asked, raising an eyebrow.

He'd never answered, but you're guessing that it had something to do with Satan and his magnetic pull that you never felt. 

 

You hadn't ever felt the pull of the so-revered God that these people never shut up about, but you never mentioned it to Dirk. Voicing it out loud didn't seem very smart, or safe, especially when the suggestion of stoning unbelievers was a popular one.

 

And so, that is probably why you saw the boy first rather than thinking about the scorching sermon the preacher had delivered that July Sunday. You'd been bored enough and perhaps dumb enough to look down the hill from the church. 

There was the Undertaker, hands folded and watching the people as they shuffled quietly down the hill. They hadn't taken notice of him yet, but they would soon, and would no doubt retreat into the refuge of their tumble-down houses, mumbling to themselves "it's not me," "it can't be me," "it's not  _gonna_ be me. You weren't surprised or even shocked at his arrival; like everyone else, you had seen him enough.

 

Instead, your eyes were drawn to the boy perched in the same position beside the Undertaker, eyes almost glowing in dust the breeze had picked up. His hair moved with the breeze, a deep black you hadn't seen very often in these parts, but his body was still, a stone in the waving grasses beside the river of Babylon. 

He was looking at you, eyes like marbles and so different than the rest of his body. He was too small for his eyes, which were so big, saucer-like, and more haunted than anything you had ever seen in your life. His legs could've been swung back and forth, if he'd wanted to, because they didn't touch the ground due to how far he was slouched back onto the mound, digits threaded together in a mirror-image of his counterpart.

 

For the first time in the entirety you had lived in this run-down hellhole, you felt that Godly pull everyone was talking about, as if the fucking saints had called you home already, and all because of those eyes.

The eyes screamed with death, with life, with revival, and you found yourself staring back, before Dirk began to pull you away at the sight of the two.

 

The boy smiled, and the Undertaker shifted.

 

 

-

 

 

They stayed for three days, perched under the blinding sun as if nothing at all was wrong in the world. Not one hint of sunburn touched the pale, perfect skin of the boy, no color touching the wrinkled skin exposed on the Undertaker's neck.

 

For three days they stared straight ahead, at the church.

 

For three days the townspeople cowered in their homes, you and your brother included, and you were going mad.

 

 

You didn't understand it. You'd seen the boy before, eyes and everything, and before you hadn't ever felt so shell-shocked and anxious, eager to break out of the barred doors of your home and do---

_Do what?_   you thought to yourself, staring intently out of the window. The boy didn't turn to look at you through the dusty streets.

He only stared straight ahead, back slouched and vertebrae popping up through the thin material covering his back.

 

You wanted to be out there, sitting with them in the scalding sun and matted dust, maybe sitting, maybe talking, maybe doing nothing at all. 

Maybe you'd leave with them, running alongside the creaky old bike in your bare feet. You didn't care if the rocks and broken glass cut the bottoms of your feet. You'd be gone with them, bloody footprints parallel to the neat tracks from the bicycle. Maybe the boy would stare at you with those eyes of ice and rebirth and mirth, the eyes of death and gore you'd had dreams about during the days they had stayed.

You wanted to leave.

 

 

- 

 

 

The church bells rang on the third day, and when the townspeople shuffled like the undead up the hill to the rickety church building, you were forced to follow. 

 

"There's no point, Dirk. Why do we do this anyway?"

You'd said it too loudly; people turned and looked at the two of you with dead eyes, but they had heard. Dirk, in turn, had furrowed his brow and stared at you with an air of warning, and only at this moment did you ever consider disobeying him.

If you'd been in your right mind, not riddled with cabin fever and hung-up on the companion of the Undertaker, you'd have never thought twice about what he said. Instead, you thought about yelling back at him.

 

You didn't. You followed him to the church, and the two of you sat in your usual spots, nearest to the windows.

 

 

-

 

 

The reverend was beside himself with rage, and pounded his wrinkled and battered fist upon the rotting pulpit, greenish teeth gritted and similar-tinted phlegm flying through the air.

 

"The  _Lord_ is  _testing us,_ people!" he had screamed, fist shaking in the dark air surrounding the inside of the church. Of course the simpering crowd had agreed and kowtowed the the idea, nodding and raising hands in their immediate faith. You didn't participate, fuming beside your brother on the bench. 

You could only see the boy, eyes locked onto yours in memory.

 

The reverend's eyes soon broke your train of thought, which wasn't much, as he screamed out about how the unbelievers would be cast out of the town, and you knew what he meant by "cast out".

They'd done it before, and they'd do it again.

 

It was due time someone was stoned, so that the Undertaker and his companion could take his leave.

 

 

Little did you know that it was going to be you, and within seconds, Dirk was held back, and you were seized.

 

 

-

 

 

Dirk was screaming, and that was all you could register.

 

The pain, otherwise, was too great, having stones being aimed and fired mercilessly at your temples, your eyes. You were now bleeding, and your own shrieking voice, as tinny and echoing as the crows' overhead, was surprising you. 

 

_"Stone the unbeliever!"_ the reverend, oh so mighty in his faith, had roared, and within seconds even more of the stones were being thrown at you, the crowd thickening and surrounding you, deep enough that you thought you'd drown from the din they created, thought you'd drown in the blood running into your mouth.

You thought you heard snickers and giggles somewhere in the chaotic whirl of noise, but you couldn't be sure, you could only see and hear one thing: the crowd, and that boy. He had stood, and was slowly, gracefully, making his way over to you. Dirk was still screaming, his hoarse voice frantic and piercing over the roaring crowd. You felt somewhat guilty, because this is just what he had feared.

 

If only you had listened.

If only you had been as God-fearing as the rest of them.

If only you had covered your eyes like a good boy.

 

The boy was smiling, what a pretty, angelic smile amongst the gore and screams. 

He inched closer to you, dimples and all so very, very pretty as he stared down at you, until he was stooped over, looking down at you with those eyes that seemed to be singing and whirling. The crowd payed no mind to him; it was as if he wasn't there. 

 

He made his hands into claws above your face, like a baby's mobile above a crib. The fingernails were dark, the fingertips covered in a dried brown substance that you guessed (you knew, you had always known) could only be dried blood. The smile was adoring, feral. You reveled in it, amongst all your pain and choking. 

 

The boy blinked once, eyes now like polished glass.

 

"Found you," he whispered, and then all there was was a sharp crack, and the sound of feathers.

 

 


End file.
